Tvrdy kept his face averted, said nothing.
“See? You can’t do it. You don’t believe it yourself. Besides, if we left now, it would only be a matter of time before Jamrog hunted us down. You know that.”
“We could go to the Fieri—”
“I tried that, remember? Besides, there’s the little matter of about ten thousand kilometers of nothing but nothing between here and there. Even if we were all up to a nice long stroll, where would we get the supplies? How would we carry them?”
Tvrdy’s head dropped.
“Look, we’ll find a way to beat him,” said Treet. “Our hit and run raids aren’t going so bad. We just have to hold on until something turns our way.” He took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. This was hard work, keeping all the ends from unraveling. “In the meantime, we have to figure out what to tell the Dhogs. They’re waiting.”
“Tell them the truth.” The resignation in the Tanais leader’s voice cut at Treet like a razor.
“Okay.” Treet nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
He went out and walked across the empty training field, trying to frame the words in his mind. The truth, yes—but what was the truth exactly? That he was not a Fieri?
That was easy enough. But if not a Fieri, what was he?
I’m a traveler. I’m from another world, another time. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past …
The truth?
You think Cynetics is a god. It isn’t. It’s a bloated, bloodsucking corporation. (What’s a corporation? Look it up in the dictionary.)
You think the Fieri are your saviors. They aren’t. In fact, for all their angelic goodness and righteousness, they wouldn’t give a rat’s hind end to save this stinking hellhole. And I don’t blame them one bit.
See, they’re human beings, too. And they have long memories. They tried for peace with you bubbleheads once upon a time and paid the ultimate price for the attempt. As it happens, they aren’t particularly anxious to repeat the experience. They’ll leave us to die our miserable deaths without lifting a finger.
Running away across the desert won’t help, either. There’s a madman on the throne of this little cesspit, and he won’t be happy till he’s incinerated the entire planet. So even if we could run, which we can’t, there’s really nowhere to run to. See?
This is reality, folks. Get used to it. We’re in the brown soup up to our rosy red cheeks, and it’s getting hotter by the minute.
“I tried to contact Treet and Calin,” Yarden said at last, her voice sounding strained. “Sympathically.”
Ianni scanned her friend’s features minutely. Yarden had sustained a severe shock, there was no question about that; her eyes were dull and her expression slack, drained. “You don’t have to tell us—” she began, leaning toward Yarden with her hand extended. But Gerdes, with a quick shake of her head, silenced her, and Ianni withdrew the hand.
In a moment Yarden continued. “I couldn’t find Calin … I think she’s dead. There was one horrible moment when I thought Treet was dead, too. But I forced the touch, and I reached him …” She raised her eyes and focused on the two women for the first time.
“I’m listening, Yarden.” Ianni spoke softly, her tone full of compassion and reassurance.
“Go on, daughter,” Gerdes said.
“There was … something—I didn’t know what—like a shell. It covered him, would not let me touch him. I sensed Treet’s presence, but could not touch him. When I persisted, the thing turned on me, forced me out. I—” Yarden’s jaw worked silently as she lost the words for a moment.
She searched Ianni’s eyes for understanding, and reached out a hand to take her friend’s arm. “Ianni, I have never felt such hate in my life. It was ugly. Hideous! I got the feeling that if it could have killed me through my contact with Treet it would have—instantly, without hesitation … and then I remembered …”
Ianni grasped Yarden’s hand. She could sense the great struggle taking place within, a war in which Yarden fought valiantly to remain stable and rational. But there was desperation growing in her eyes; the fight was taking a toll on her strength. Soon she would buckle under the strain. She looked to Gerdes for help.
“What did you remember, Yarden?” Gerdes asked, pressing Yarden to continue. “Say the words. Release their power over you.”
A spasm of fear squirmed over Yarden’s face. “Trabant …” She whispered the name. “… it wanted to kill me.”
“But it didn’t kill you,” said Gerdes. “It couldn’t harm you at all. You’re safe now.” Gerdes spoke soothingly, but her words had the opposite effect.
“No!” shouted Yarden shrilly. “You don’t understand. I’m not worried about myself. It’s Treet! He’s in trouble and I can’t … I don’t know what to do.”
Ianni thought for a moment. “The Preceptor will help us,” she said, looking to Gerdes for affirmation. Gerdes nodded her approval. “We will go to her at once.”
The three were silent as they walked to the Preceptor’s tent, which looked like a large, multisectioned orange, white, and blue blossom—inverted and dropped onto the sand. Ianni and Yarden waited outside while Gerdes sought audience for them within.
They were admitted and entered. Globes of pale yellow sunstone rested in sconces in the sand, bathing the interior in soft illumination. Mentors Anthon and Eino were seated on cushions on either side of the Preceptor; Preben was in attendance as well. Anthon jumped up as soon as he saw Yarden. “Come in, please. Sit down,” he said, offering his place next to the Preceptor.
The Preceptor gazed at Yarden, concern and compassion mingled in her eyes. She lifted a regal hand and helped Yarden down to the cushion beside her. Yarden felt healing power in the touch as her heart calmed, and a measure of peace returned.
“Don’t be afraid, Yarden,” said the Preceptor. There was strength in the simple words, strength Yarden could lean on. She settled down gratefully beside the Preceptor and looked at the faces ringed around her. She could feel the kindness and sympathy flowing out to her, and relaxed a little.
At a glance from the Preceptor, Anthon leaned forward and said, “We have been discussing the appearance of your friend Crocker. We would like to hear your thoughts.”
“Yes,” offered Mentor Eino, a dark-bearded man with an easy smile and large hairy hands. “We are concerned, as you must be, and seek guidance in this matter. You could help us a great deal by speaking candidly.”
“I’ll try,” said Yarden softly. Music floated into the tent from outside, along with the sound of Fieri voices, a happy evensong rippling on the evening breeze. The sound was at once comforting and remote, as if taking place in a separate and distant sphere of existence, while what was happening in this tent at this moment was all that was real.
“I am afraid,” Yarden began, “afraid for my friends—I fear that something terrible has happened.” She paused, and Ianni, sitting directly opposite, urged her with her eyes. “I tried to contact Orion Treet sympathically—that is, with my extrasensory abilities. After some effort I found him, but was not able to establish contact—something prevented me, opposed me.”
She explained about her attempt to reach Treet and her encounter with the evil spirit of Trabant Animus, and how just the briefest touch had left her drained and frightened. “Treet is alive,” she declared, “but he is in trouble. We’ve got to do something to help him.”
The Preceptor nodded slightly, accepting Yarden’s story. “Is there anything else you would like to tell us?”
“Why, yes,” said Yarden, “There is something else. The talking fish—”
“The fish?” Anthon darted a glance to Eino and leaned forward. “Tell us!”
“It may have been my imagination, but I believe they were trying to warn me of danger.” She then told them of the strange ‘conversation’ she’d had with Spinner and Glee.
Her listeners were silent, their faces grave when she finished. Preben, who had followed the story carefully, spoke
up. “This is precisely the matter that brought me here tonight. I have been hearing similar stories these last two days.”
Mentor Eino nodded thoughtfully. “I, too, received such a warning from the talking fish, although I could not interpret it half so well.” He nodded in deference to Yarden’s ability.
“Exactly what I was thinking!” Anthon interjected. “A remarkable telling.”
It had not occurred to Yarden that her sympathic ability might have given her a special facility for understanding the talking fish. Although she had recognized at the time that the creature’s ‘speech’ was quite similar to the sympath’s touch, she did not imagine that she would prove to be a first-class interpreter.
The Preceptor, who peered over interlaced fingers at Yarden, asked, “What do you believe to be the nature of this warning?”
Yarden paused to gather her thoughts. She wanted to be as precise as possible—Treet’s life might depend on her answer. Closing her eyes to aid memory, Yarden thought back—was it only a day ago?—to her time with the fishes. She could feel the remarkable presence of the wise and gentle creatures, and once more experienced their pure and uninhibited expression.
The affect string came back to her with terrible clarity, magnified by her own still fresh experience with Trabant. She felt again the swarming, pestilential darkness; the mindless hate and unreasoning malice; the all-consuming malevolence of the hideous, twisted thing; the stifling threat of creeping doom.
Yarden shivered and began to speak. “There is darkness … a seething, potent darkness, and hate—such unbelievable and total hate; it wants to destroy us, to poison us with its evil, exterminate us.” She opened her eyes slowly to find the others watching her, frowning deeply, thoughtfully. “I believe the fish were warning us about Dome,” she concluded.
The word seemed to freeze them all for a moment. All except Yarden.
She looked triumphantly from face to face, thinking, There! I’ve said it. It cannot hurt me. Its only power is fear, and I have conquered that here tonight. I am free of its malignant influence, and I refuse to give in to it again. I am free!
SIXTY-THREE
Giloon Bogney stared at Treet with murder in his eyes. The bhuj in his hand flicked back and forth, the discolored blade glinting dully in the dirty light. “Giloon could kill you, Fieri man,” he growled.
“What would that solve? You’d never get out of here then.” For the last two hours Treet had been explaining all the reasons he could think of why he couldn’t lead a Dhog exodus out across Daraq, the Blighted Lands. Now he was tired and wanted to sleep.
“Huh!” Bogney grunted, rubbing the bhuj against his hairy cheek. Then he pushed the weapon into Treet’s face. “Maybe Giloon be killing you now, seh?”
Treet pushed it away angrily. “Look, I don’t want to play games with you. I want to go to sleep. So, unless you have any further—”
“You taking Dhogs to Fieri,” Bogney insisted.
“I’ve told you twenty different ways: n-o—no! It’s impossible. We’d never make it. I can’t. I won’t. Kill me if it will make you feel better, but we are not going to Fierra. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Get used to the idea. We are not going!”
Bogney stared at him with his good eye, his zigzag scar puckering angrily. “Dhogs don’t needs you, Fieri man. We be going lonely anyhow.”
Treet sighed and rolled his eyes. “We’ve been through this, Bogney. You have no idea what a desert is, what it’s like out there. In fact, you don’t even have the slightest idea of what it’s like to breathe fresh air! Let me tell you, words can’t describe how painful it is. That’s what it’s like. Real air would wipe you out in a second.”
Bogney listened patiently. When Treet was done, he remarked in exactly the same stubborn tone as before: “Dhogs be going lonely anyhow.”
“Okay! Fine! Go! Bon voyage! Vamoose!” Treet crossed his arms over his chest and flopped down on his bed. “You’re the boss, Bogney. Happy motoring. Don’t forget to write. Good-bye and good luck and good riddance!”
Bogney stared at Treet for a moment longer, turned, and walked slowly out, his much-stained cloak—the one Tvrdy had given him—sweeping the floor behind him, leaving only a residual reek in the air.
What a day! thought Treet. Tvrdy’s giving up, Bogney wants to leave, and everyone else is just comatose from exhaustion. If that isn’t enough, the Invisibles are systematically tearing the Old Section apart brick by crumbling brick. What can happen next?
Treet knew he should not have asked that question. He didn’t really want an answer. But he got one anyway—in the form of a ripping blast that raked the compound outside, spattering rocks and dirt clods against the trembling walls of the building.
Treet rocketed straight up off the bed and reached the door without touching the floor. He was outside a split-second later as people came spilling out onto the field.
“Get back! Get back, you fools!”
Treet spun around to see Tvrdy racing toward him in a crouch. He saw the flash and saw Tvrdy throw himself to the ground, but before he could do likewise, the shock wave hit him and flattened him. Brick fragments and bits of debris pelted into him, followed by a rain of hot gravel.
Wriggling on his stomach, Treet inched over to Tvrdy. “I thought they weren’t supposed to be this far in,” shouted Treet, his voice lost amidst the roar still echoing in his ears.
“Those were long-range seekers.” Tvrdy jerked his head up, looked around. “The Invisibles will follow them in, but we still have a little time to get out.”
“I know a place—the Dhog cemetery. Bogney took me there. It’s safe—hey!—where’re you going?”
Tvrdy was already on his feet, dashing away, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Save the supplies and weapons! Everyone carry something! Supplies and weapons! Leave the rest!”
Two more blasts shook the compound, but they landed wide of the arsenal and supply buildings. Despite the rising panic, the evacuation got under way speedily and efficiently. Treet gathered himself and ran for the ramshackle hospital.
“What’s happening?” Ernina asked as he came in, her square face floating in the light from a hand-held lantern. The moans of the injured filled the darkness.
“Invisibles—they’ve found us. We still have some time. We’re getting out.”
“I can’t leave the wounded.” She made to turn away.
Treet caught her arm and held on. “We’ll take them with us. Get all your equipment together. I’ll find Bogney.”
He hurried out again into the confusion. Flares burned outside the supply buildings, casting the scene into garish relief. Treet made for the far end of the compound and struck off for the Dhog leader’s lair. He met Bogney and several of his underlings flying toward him along the narrow street with torches in their hands.
Treet halted. “Bogney!”
The Dhogs ignored Treet, pushing past him without a word. “Bogney! I have to talk to you.” He began running after them.
“Giloon be finished talking.” The Dhog leader called back over his shoulder.
“Listen to me!”
The Dhogs ran on without looking back.
“I’ll lead you to Fierra!” screamed Treet. “Do you hear me? Fierra! You win. I’ll take you.”
Bogney stopped and turned around. Treet ran to him, and the Dhog shoved a torch into Treet’s face and glared at him. “Fieri man be lying big to Giloon?”
Treet shook his head, his breath coming in gasps. “No … I mean it. I’ll take you, but you have to help me first—help me get the wounded out of the hospital. I’ll need all the men you can get; we have to carry them to safety.”
“Then you take us?”
“I don’t know how, but I’ll take you.” Another blast lit up the night. A tottering ruin several blocks over tumbled, spilling its rubble into the street behind them. “We’ve got to hurry. Make up your mind.”
“Lie to Dhogs, Giloon killing you dead.”
“If I�
�m lying, you can kill me all you want later. Only come on, we’ve got to move now!”
Bogney whirled and sent two of his companions racing off in the opposite direction. Then he and the two remaining Dhogs followed Treet back to the compound.
“It will take too long to assemble all the Mentors,” protested Yarden. “We must do something now.”
The Preceptor smiled, but said firmly, “We will have the time we require. The Protector will look after your friend. The Mentors must be assembled, for wisdom is multiplied when many wise come together.” She rose, signaling an end to the interview.
Yarden glanced around the ring of faces and saw that pressing the matter further would gain nothing; she had done all she could for one night. She rose and said, “Thank you, Preceptor, for hearing me out. If I have spoken more frankly than I might have, it is because I believe time is short.”
The Preceptor went to Yarden and put her arms around her. “Think no negative thought, Yarden. Trust in the Infinite Father to care for His own. He will provide a Deliverer.”
“I will try, Preceptor. It’s hard, but I will try.”
The Preceptor released Yarden and stood for a moment holding her at arm’s length. “I detect in you the kindled flame of belief. I sensed it earlier when you entered this evening, and it is stronger now.”
Yarden bowed her head. “It’s true,” she admitted shyly, then raised her head, face beaming. “And it feels wonderful!”
“Feed the flame, Yarden.” The Preceptor squeezed her hands. “Feed it with all that is in you.”
With that, Yarden said good-night and followed the others out. Anthon was waiting for her a few paces up the beach. The campfires were mostly out, and the songs had died away. The Fieri were turning in for the night. “Walk with me a little, would you?”
“Of course,” replied Yarden and they fell into step with one another. She breathed in the night air and glanced at the hard, bright stars burning in the deep heavens. Empyrion didn’t have a moon, but she didn’t miss it—except at rare times, like now.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 38